CHAPTER 38
The Carlyle Hotel was an understated, elegant hotel on Madison Avenue in the style of a grand English manor. It was one of those hotels that whispered luxury with an intimidating Old Money sang-froid. Even the air-conditioning was always a frosty sixty-six degrees. When Schuyler was little, her grandmother would to take her to the Bemelmans Bar for Shirley Temples. Cordelia would sit at the bar and smoke, drinking one Sazerac after another, and Schuyler would sit quietly, looking at the frolicking animals on the mural and counting the many ladies who came in wearing hats and corsages. Then, afterward, they would repair to the main dining room to tuck into a five-course French meal. On the days when Cordelia declared she'd had "just enough" of the Riverside Drive house, they would repair to a two-bedroom apartment suite at the Carlyle for the weekend. Schuyler would order strawberries and cream from room service, fill up the whirlpool bath, and eat her nutritiously deficient dinner amid the bubbles.
When Schuyler walked into the white marble lobby that evening, she felt at home in the hushed surroundings. She put painful thoughts of Jack Force and the humiliating encounter with his father out of her mind. Bliss had asked her and Oliver to meet her there that evening without explaining why. Oliver was already waiting in a secluded corner of the bar.
"Manhattan?" he asked, motioning to his drink. "Sure." She nodded.
A discreet waiter arrived bearing a silver tray and her cocktail. He placed a silver bowl of warm Spanish almonds on their table.
Schuyler picked one and munched on it thoughtfully. "God, do they have the best nuts here or what?"
"There's nothing like an Upper East Side hotel." Oliver nodded sagely, taking a handful. "We should do a New York hotel bar-nut tour. Compare the Regency's nuts to the Carlyle's to the St. Regis."
"Mmmmm… the Regency has a great selection. They do this little appetizer thing, with three different kinds of treats—wasabi peas, warm nuts, and some kind of peppery cracker," Schuyler said. The Regency was another of Cordelia's favorite haunts.
They emptied their glasses and ordered another. After a few minutes, Bliss ran into the bar, her hair still wet from a shower. She took a seat next to Schuyler and across from Oliver. "Hey, guys. Thanks for meeting me."
"Manhattan?"
"Sure."
The three of them clinked drinks.
"Mmm… these nuts are good," Bliss said, popping a few into her mouth.
Oliver and Schuyler laughed.
"What's so funny?"
"Nothing. I'll tell you later, it's not important," Schuyler said.
Bliss raised an eyebrow. The two of them were like that all the time. Inside jokes, memories of their friendship she didn't share. It was amazing that Dylan had put up with it.
"C'mon, what's happened? Why did you want to meet here?" Schuyler asked.
"He's here."
"Who?" Oliver asked.
"Who else? Dylan." Bliss replied. She told them what she found out from her father—that Dylan had been released— but he wasn't exactly as free as Charles Force had told them. Instead, he had been put into protective custody in a suite at the Carlyle Hotel. The judge had allowed Charles Force to bail him out, on the condition that Dylan be released only to his care. Her father said it was all a misunderstanding, and the charges would be dropped soon enough. But they still couldn't figure out why Dylan was being held anyway, especially by Charles Force.
"And I overheard my dad and Charles talking, about how 'they take care of their own' and 'not to let the situation get out of hand. “
"Wonder what he meant by that?" Schuyler asked, taking another almond from the bowl.
Bliss took a long swig from her cocktail. "Anyway, the way I see it, we just do what Oliver said. Bust him out. We can't fail. Use mind control to overwhelm the guards— Schuyler told me she had done it before—then speed him out of there, and Ollie's the lookout. They're holding him in Room 1001."
“Just like that?" Oliver asked.
"Yeah, why not? You're the one who told us to think like Blue Bloods."
"But how do we get upstairs in the first place? Don't you need to be a guest?" Oliver asked.
"Actually," Schuyler piped up, "that's the easiest part. Cordelia and I used to stay here all the time. I know the elevator guys."
"Well then, let's get the show on the road," Oliver said, raising his hand for the check.
They walked out to the main lobby toward the guarded elevator. "Hey, Marty," Schuyler said, smiling at the elevator man in his shiny red coat with brass buttons.
"Hi, Miss Schuyler, you haven't been here in a while," he said, tipping his hat.
"I know, it's been too long," Schuyler said smoothly, ushering in her friends into the mirrored elevator.
"Twelfth floor?" Marty asked genially.
"No, they uh, put us on ten this time. You guys must be booked."
"It's October," he explained. "Lots of tourists. Some show at the Met or something." He pressed the TEN and took a step back, smiling at Schuyler and her friends.
"Thanks, Marty, see you around!" Schuyler said, when the doors opened.
They walked toward the end of the hallway to the room, but when they arrived at Room 1001, there were no guards stationed at the front of the room.
"That's weird," Bliss said. "I heard my dad saying they've got like, all these cops around him all the time."
Schuyler was about to pulverize the lock, when she noticed something. The door was ajar. She pushed it open. She glanced over her shoulder to find Bliss and Oliver giving her puzzled looks. They had come prepared for battle, and yet there was no obstacle to their progress.
Schuyler entered the room, Bliss immediately behind her.
"Dylan?" Bliss called.
They entered the plush, carpeted room, where the television was still blaring. There was a room service tray with remnants of a steak dinner on its plate, the silver covers haphazardly stacked to the side. An unmade bed and towels on the floor.
"Are you sure they said 1001?" Schuyler asked. "Completely." Bliss nodded.
"What do you think happened?" Oliver asked, looking around and taking the remote control. He switched off the television.
"Dylan's gone," Bliss said flatly. She remembered what Charles Force had told her. He was being taken care of— whatever that meant. She felt a chill. Had they arrived too late to save him?
"He's escaped." Oliver nodded.
"Or someone, or something, let him go." Schuyler said. Bliss was silent, her face inscrutable as she looked at the half-eaten meal.
Schuyler placed a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "I'm sure wherever he is, he's all right. Dylan's tough," she told her friend. "Now, come on, let's get out of here before someone thinks we let him out."
CHAPTER 39
It came upon her without warning. Schuyler cursed her pride. It was all her fault. Oliver had offered to put her in a cab, but since she already owed him so much money, she had declined. Conduit or not, she didn't want to keep taking advantage of his generosity. He and Bliss lived a few blocks away from the Carlyle and she told them she was fine with taking the crosstown bus. The M72 dropped her off at 72nd and Broadway, and she decided to walk the rest of the way home. It was more than twenty blocks, but she looked forward to the exercise.
At the corner of Ninety-fifth Street, she turned from the well-lit avenue to a dark street, hoping to walk up Riverside, and that's when she felt it.
Within seconds, it had her in her grasp. She felt the sharp fangs puncture her skin and begin to slowly draw her life's blood from her. She swooned, gasping. She was going to die.
She was fifteen years old and had hardly even lived, and already she was going to die. She struggled against its iron grip. Worse, knowing what her grandmother had told her, she would live. She would live in this foul beast's memory, a trapped prisoner to its insane consciousness forever.